Baltimore man visits B’ville

An article came out today. It is by Richard Palmer - Al mentions him on his 7/23/08 blog entry.

Baltimore man visits B’ville
Richard Palmer 07/24/08

On a recent rainy evening, Al Freihofer of Baltimore, MD tied his Adirondack Guide Boat to one of Baldwinsville's docks where he spent the night. It had been a long day as he had rowed some 30 miles from Lock CS-1 in Cayuga.But this is only part of his story. Freihofer had spent the previous four days rowing the entire distance of the canal from Tonawanda.


To read more, go to

http://www.cnylink.com/cnynews/view_news.php?news_id=1216911119

Illuminating

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

Betcha' you thought this monologue had ended, huh? Alas, it has not…at least not quite yet, because I haven't even gotten you off Cayuga Lake. Let's go, OK?

But first…fast forward. Last Thursday I was at 30 some-odd thousand feet, homeward bound from a teaching seminar in Colorado Springs. I had brought my lil' GPS device with me - the same one that silently counted out the miles and my glacial speed during the row - and as I held it to the window so that it could pick up satellite contacts, here's what it told me: the 4 miles that took me a full hour to row passed the window in 37.6 seconds. My entire 14-day trip was covered in 39 minutes, twenty twos seconds…hardly enough time to peruse the editorial page of the New York Times. I sipped my in-flight coffee, marveled, and turned the page.

The only other quasi-nautical connection to my Colorado Springs visit involved my unwitting participation in a morning aqua-aerobics class. I was swimming against the current in a nifty 50' diameter "current pool" to get some early-morning exercise when a svelte "aqua-aerobics" instructor informed me that a class would start in five minutes and she'd need the pool...unless I wanted to join in. I foolishly elected the latter, and within five minutes I felt - and no doubt looked - like a thrashing Labrador in the midst of a pod of sleek porpoises who anticipated each of their trainer's commands with precision and grace. It wasn't pretty…but I was a game pup, and it was a good workout.

OK, so it's Monday, June 30. We're pushing off from a three-day layover at Cayuga Lake; the gracious Morehouse crew, the wine country, the softening of the hands and derriere, all of this is now subordinate to getting back in the rhythm for the 200 mile pull to Troy. Today's destination: Baldwinsville, Lock 24, about 37 miles away. What started as a hot, calm day ends in a downpour and a nighttime arrival, and an interview over dinner with Richard Palmer of The Canal Times. Richard covers the entire waterfront of the Canal…all 360+ miles…and that he tracked me down in Baldwinsville on this given evening is a testament to his coverage. Richard is a great fellow, and I think whatever he works up will run in the August issue.

But before we dismiss this day, let me urge you to visit the links Kathy has set up to meet and learn about one Joe Deverell. I met Joe at the Morehouse boat show, and he invited me to stop by his house on Cross Lake which is bisected by the canal (the lake, not the house). I did stop and as the link will show you, Joe's passion, authentic Venetian gondolas, makes my rowing of an Adirondack guide boat seem wimpy by comparison. His elegant craft - a small ship, really - is 36 feet long and weighs three quarters of a ton. By comparison, my guide boat is 15 feet long and weighs about fifty pounds. Frankly, the only thing these vessels have in common is the necessity of human propulsion…one human to a boat, thank you. Joe is an imposing fellow and looks well able to get his 1500 pound vessel moving smartly, and he does: check out his site! He's been all over the Erie canal and has even given the Hudson a shot. HOW one propels a 36', 1500 pound craft over great distances - with only one oar, no less - is incomprehensible to me, but he does. Simply awesome. If you're at all nautical and are anywhere near red buoy #420 on the Erie, be on the lookout for Joe; he's a great guy, just the kind of adventurer and free spirit who makes a trip like this so enjoyable. I hope I will have the opportunity to return his hospitality when he ventures out again. An original Venetian gondola.

Sheeesh. I ask you, are we still the last remaining superpower, or what?

The next day dawns sunny and warm, perfect for an attempt to get across Oneida Lake, the single largest body of open water on the canal. For years I'd heard stories of Oneida Lake, warnings that were reiterated by any and all who knew I'd be attempting a crossing. You see, Oneida Lake is out in the open; there are no hills or mountains to blanket one from wind, and its shallow depth accentuates the wave action anytime a breeze kicks up. A Canadian trawler I'd met in Spencerport warned me that Oneida Lake presented the worst wave action he'd seen since leaving Florida two months earlier. These thoughts were on my mind 19 miles later, when I finally nosed into Oneida's wide waters.

A west-east crossing of Oneida presents an immediate challenge to the oarsman. There is no horizon: just water, as if one were looking into the Atlantic. I knew that I'd better follow the widely-spaced markers to minimize the distance across just in case the weather turned, and I lamented that I was starting across the 22-mile expanse so late in the day. It was 4 PM, and while it would be light even as late as 8, I knew I'd have to book it in the event the winds turned on the nose. All of the worst stories I'd heard about Oneida Lake's petulant weather were stifled by my get-home-itis, the bane of nautical and aeronautical adventurers throughout the ages. I lathered up, took a long drag of Gatorade, and leaned into the oars.

To make a long story short, the wind did come up smartly, but in the form of a blessed 15 knot tailwind, right from the stern. I was even able to augment my progress - for the first time- with the small 'pusher sail' I had mounted for just such an opportunity. The GPS was reading as high as 7 knots as I surfed most of the way across, intermittently rowing and using the oars to maintain stability. Broaching in the middle of Oneida Lake might have made for a more exciting tale, but I am not sure how such a tale might have ended. This particular day ended at Sylvan Beach at dusk, 44 miles closer to home and with an after-hours burger served by a most sympathetic waitress. It was "Cycle Night" at the Beach, but I had no trouble pitching the tent in the park and almost immediately finding the Land of Nod. My neighbors that evening were nursing a 48' sailboat back to Erie, PA, that had been hit - and fried - by lightning. My thoughts turned to Joe, standing tall in that gondola. Joe, stay low - or home - when the bolts start to fly, 'K?

Hey, I'm on a roll, and we're only four days from home. Let's tackle Wednesday, 7/2, OK? As I recall, it was pretty uneventful. But the night was illuminating.

"Illuminating, AL? What do you mean?"

As I arranged the boat for the day, I came across my sliding seat tucked up in the nose. I'd not been using it out of concerns for my posterior which had not been conditioned for the rigors of 10-hour days in the boat. I oiled it up (the seat, Gentle Reader, the seat) and fixed it to the rails that morning, thinking that I'd use it to make better time until the ache started to come and then abandon it for the fixed wicker seat I'd been using exclusively up to that point.

Gentle Reader, you do the math: by switching to the slider, my stroke rate went from 25 per minute to 16. a _____% decrease. The GPS showed a flat-water, no-current pace of 4.8 mph…fully .8 to .9 better than The Wicker Way, a _____% increase. I'd waited 226 miles to make this decision. Needless to say, I was "conditioned" to stay on the slider for the rest of the trip, lamenting that my early caution had cost me a lot of time and unnecessary calories. My legs were happy to finally have something to do other than cause me sunburned agony, and I was happy for their happiness.

My new Mach number of 4.8 - with an occasional "power ten" (thanks, Bean!) of up to 5.5 - enabled me to circle for a landing 34 miles later at Lock 19 in Frankfort. This town holds a special place in my heart as its bucolic grass strip was the destination of my first solo cross country flight when I was learning to fly in 1973. It took me a very long time to find the field, as I recall, because to this junior birdman it looked just like the agricultural fields that surround it. Only a Cessna sitting in what looked like a corn field alerted me to its location and, after a low drag over the field to be sure, I bounced in for the necessary logbook signature of "proof" to my anxious instructor that I'd been there…and a basket of tomatoes for more tangible evidence.

Ahh..Frankfort. Little did I know that my last Frankfortian Chapter had not yet been written.

I pulled the boat up on a low dock, emptied it of tent and supplies, enjoyed another placid evening setting up camp and enjoying Peg and Kathy's company (before they headed out to a picturesque B&B in Little Falls), and hit the hay at 9, looking forward to a good night's sleep.

I don't know what time it was. It doesn't really matter. When your tent has collapsed on you under the onslaught of a tornado-like vortex, your first inclination is not to check your watch. When your tent then literally lifts into the air, threatening to subject you to yet another take-off (and hard landing) in a town you'd thought you'd put in your aeronautical past, you tend not to ask, "What the hell time is it?" No, instead you ask, "What the hell is going on?"

The tent was alternately lifting and bucking, the rain flap acting as a perfect lifting airfoil in the hardest winds I'd felt in a very long while. Add lightning, thunder, and the resonating "splat" of fat raindrops, and you have the scene for "The Decision."

You see, even while I was trying to keep my tent and its contents - including me - on the ground (No, I had not staked it down, but given the placid evening upon retirement, you wouldn't have, either), I was thinking about my boat, pulled up on the dock fifty yards away. I'd not tied it down, and I knew that the winds could easily whisk it off the dock and create much trouble. I also knew that the moment I stepped out of the tent, it too would certainly be gone…to somewhere. Who knew?

"The Lady or the Tiger"…the Boat or the Tent?

Batman would have checked up on Robin. Roy would have checked up on Trigger. I, of course, had to check the boat. I stepped out of the tent and sprinted to the dock, the lightning and my own desperation illuminating the path. The boat was still there, rocking on the planks, and I lashed it to a tree. As I crested the bank back to the tent, the lighting illuminated the surreal image of my tent (and its contents) ballooning across an adjacent field like a crazed tumbleweed. In what should possibly be considered as a future crowd-pleasing Olympic event, I sprinted at least 50 yards to overtake it, tackled it at the knees, and literally rolled myself up in the fabric, trying to spoil its aerodynamic perfection. I subdued the beast, but the wind continued to howl. What to do now? To try to raise and stake the tent in such conditions would be even more entertaining (translate: comical) than the capture, and I had no appetite for playing "catch and release" again.

I've heard it said that "the decision not to make a decision is a decision." Rolled up in the fabric of my tent like an otter in sea kelp, I decided that the day's work was done. The boat would be there in the morning, and so would this mess. I slept, as wet…and as oblivious to my surroundings…as an otter.

Tomorrow…or sometime soon…we'll finish this trip, OK?

Hugs,

Mr. Frei

Morehouse Memories

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

Tonight's blog comes to you from sunny (or twilight) Colorado Springs, where your faithful scribe is attending a Gurian Institute seminar on gender-based learning research and consequent teaching strategies. It is fascinating stuff, explaining a lot about how boys and girls learn differently and how we (teachers and parents) can adapt some –or much - of what we do to better effect. I've only been here for a day…but this promises to be very useful information indeed. Sadly, none of it yet explains my three-time pass at Algebra I. That must be a different seminar.

Sadly, multi-day seminars present the allure/danger of the ever-present feed bag. This morning I found myself totally unsupervised in front of an enormous platter of corned beef hash. Not good. I need to be very, very closely monitored and counseled in such a setting. I went back twice. Three times, actually. Then, four hours later, it's lunchtime. Meatloaf. Uh oh. You get the idea.

So… this evening's Blog is written in lieu of dinner and will be followed by a vigorous amble (I can hardly call it a jog) through the hills surrounding the University of Colorado campus where we are staying. This setting enjoys a commanding view of Pike's Peak and Cheyenne Mountain across the valley, the air is as dry and cool as Baltimore's is hot and wet, and all of this simply must prevent me from sitting in front of my third square meal of the day.

Having re-read my last blogs to catch up, I am concerned that there is too much slow-moving pedestrian detail and not enough punch. I can't guarantee punch, but I can skip some of the tedious blow-by-blow stuff because, let's face it, this was a row, not a Rolling Stones tour. Suffice to say that the next three days (6/24, 25, & 26) were spent slogging through Rochester (big and animated by the confluence of the Genesee River), Pittsford (classy), Fairport (classy, but not very welcoming; they, too, suggested I "look for better options" further along the canal), Macedon (the Lockmaster at 30 mercifully let me pitch a tent after a long, long day and the rejection in Fairport), Newark (nice shower in the Welcome Center), Clyde (see Brian's comments….not deserved), and finally, through the Montezuma Wildlife Refuge (grassy, great birds) and the short Cayuga-Seneca Canal (up) to Cayuga Lake. That's a blessedly short overview of three days and 77 miles…but it gets me to Cayuga Lake so that I can riff a bit about the Morehouse Boat Company and family, a far more stimulating topic than my own labors at the oars.

On Thursday the 26th, shortly after I came through Lock 1 on Cayuga Lake (and got up close and personal with the Zebra Mussels congealed on the lock walls…a nasty miasma of shell and goo and skanky slime; if Peg will download the pictures, you'll see what I mean), I headed towards Cayuga Lake State Park, on the northwest shore of Cayuga Lake, where I hoped to spend the night and await Peg & Kathy's arrival on Saturday.

Rowing up to what looked like "the Park building" (it wasn't), the first person I met was George Zeth. George coached me through a strategy to pitch a tent close to the water at the Park without getting hassled (proved successful), regaled me with the local history of the Park and then, more interesting to me, of his forebears' boatbuilding business. George gave me a private tour of the charming waterfront museum which commemorates the Morehouse Boat Company and Cayuga's general boatbuilding and Park heritage, including a look at the very jigs and frames Morehouse used for decades to build a wide array of power and sailing craft in that building. He even allowed me to lend a hand at the Morehouse Boat Reunion at that very site over the coming weekend…and then let me off lightly on the heavy-lifting tasks. George is a great guy, very knowledgeable, and a fine host. All of this is just to say that when a random encounter on a rowing trip includes meeting guy like George at your first "hello," you have to count yourself lucky.

I won't butcher the history of this fine family's business by trying to recount it from memory (I think Kathy has afforded you the chance to look at it through a link to the museum), but I will simply say that the Morehouse story is the classic story of a small, enterprising business focused on quality and service, founded and built by very hard-working people who did whatever had to be done to keep it going through all seasons, economic cycles, and trends, and which morphed over time as circumstances dictated. Finally, for the myriad reasons that afflict so many small family businesses, it ceased to be. Gentle Reader, go to the site. It's fascinating, familiar, and now, for me, personal.

Yet happily, over the weekend of June 27th, I had a hard time believing that the Morehouse Boat Company had "ceased to be." For three days Morehouse family members, customers, friends, boat-nuts, historians, local politicians, and neighbors told story after story of colorful times, displayed their Morehouse boats (and their justifiable pride in them), and proved that as long as we remember them, the events, people, and objects of our nostalgia continue to live. To George, Betty, Jenny, Mike, Rob and the many others who hosted me so graciously over three full days and brought me into their pasts and presents…thank you. Your hospitality was a highlight of my trip, and I couldn't be more grateful to all of you for adopting me for a weekend.

On Sunday I was delighted to take Peg & Kathy on a wine tour of Cayuga and Seneca Lakes (in Kathy's Subaru, not my boat). Suffice to say that if I were a vitas vinifera, I could think of worse climes in which to spend the summer. (Winters I'd want to spend south.) Both Seneca and Cayuga lakes are cupped by gently sloping hills – framed by long, oblique "plateaus," really – and we tasted some very fine stuff. Being the Designated Driver on such a tour poses some restrictions on how much you can taste, but we ended the day with a full wagon.

I myself capped the night off with a guilty Vanilla Malt, knowing that three days of lallygagging around the Finger Lakes was not getting me any closer to the Hudson.
The calluses were softening. It was time to go.

Tomorrow's Blog: The Amazing Gondola Man…and The Big Waters.

Rocky Mountain Hi,

Mr. Frei

Lock Keepers

Greetings, Gentle Reader July 12, 2008

"OK, Mr. Frei? So, what happened next?" I can hear you ask, perhaps offering a thought for today's blog entry.
But wait! Before I get into Day 2, let me thank those of you who have made something significant from a "quiet" fundraiser. As of today, we're at $6776 for financial aid for the boys at Boys' Latin. To those of you who have weighed in, thank you! To those of you who are still on the fence...climb in the boat!
Ok...on with the narrative.
6/23, Day 2: After loading in my stuff on the low dock at Lockport – including Harold's copious supplies – and after a Big Breakfast at Denny's, I readied myself for my first lock experience. I walked over to the lock keeper to get advice, and it was embarrassingly simple: "When I open the gate, row in, grab a line, and wait until I open the lower doors." He might have overstated the complexity.
Lockport is a double lock dropping 49 feet in total, and locking through was indeed a breeze. One feels like a tub toy as the water gets lower and you sit in an increasingly voluminous concrete cavern, but locking down is a pretty placid experience. It seems odd to see this enormous infrastructure serving the likes of a 15 foot rowboat, but throughout the trip the lock keepers assured me that that's what it's there for. They were a very accommodating and encouraging lot, calling ahead to the next lock with an ETA and, later in the trip, allowing me to camp out on their impeccably kept grounds.
One more riff about the lock keepers, if I may?

These guys (sorry, no lock keeper-ettes, to my knowledge) are extraordinary. They are not only responsible for the safe operation of some pretty massive machinery (not an altogether easy task considering the amateurs who call on those services each day), but for its upkeep as well. This is 1915 technology, machinery, and circuitry, and each winter they take it apart piece by piece to refurbish, polish, and bring it back to virtually new condition. Each lock's equipment is a museum piece…a work of art, really…and they would proudly open up the plates and shields that house the gears, electrics, and valves. It all sparkled. Unbelievable.

These fellows are sanguine about the role the canal now plays. I saw only one commercial vessel – a barge – throughout my trip, and one lock keeper put it well: "We're responsible for the upkeep of antiquated infrastructure within a stretched budget." They work under the auspices of the New York State Thruway Authority, and it seems that the Thruway folks are anxious to shift the Canal – and I suspect some red ink – to another agency. Whatever the future holds, the canal is a resource that is certainly in capable and caring hands.

In terms of distance travelled, Day 2 turned out to be my best. Because of the 62 mile stretch between Lockport and the next lock (#32, just east of Rochester), I was not slowed by lock transits and even enjoyed a bit of a tailwind all the way under a glorious sun. I had planned to finish at Brockport (42 miles). Upon arriving after about 10 hours of rowing, I discovered that the folks there had no appetite for entertaining a rowboat/camping combination overnight…and I was encouraged to explore other "options" along the canal. I DID get a shower…but then slogged 8 more miles in the dark to Spencerport, where I employed the "don't ask, don't tell" strategy of finding a place to sleep. Considering the virtual absence of boats and travel on the canal up to that point, I was astounded…and a little miffed…that the Welcome Mat would not be out at virtually any point. The days of the mega-cruiser showing up for 2500 gallons of fuel and copious re-provisioning might be over – at least for this summer. I would think that any community looking to take advantage of its proximity to the canal would accommodate anyone using this resource…but, alas, not in Brockport.

So I rowed on to Spencerport in the dark, flopped on the town dock at about 10 PM, and slept well under the stars. Very well. A 50 mile day on flat water is a full day.

Day 3 tomorrow, 'K?

Mr. Frei

P.S. Mark McCarty's trip of the end of the row can be found at

http://www.flickr.com/photos/25133618@N07/sets/72157606117000843/

Cayuga Lake - June 30, 2008

Marck of Belgium (http://www.flickr.com/photos/marck_from_belgium/2660362777/) took one of my photos and played with it. I like the result!

Unconditional Kindness

Greetings, Gentle Reader, July 11, 2008
Woah! This is a very 90's moment for yours truly. I have ambled down to "Spoons," the local coffee shop, and am at this moment masquerading as one of the intelligencia as I tap at my keyboard, periodically gazing thoughtfully into the distance, trying to develop just the right distinguishing tic or trait that will enable me to blend into this trendy mix. I've suppressed the urge to order a Vanilla Bean Whipped Frappuccino and instead sip a small coffee - black, unsweetened- just the stuff of writers. I've not shaved this morning, and today's grey T shirt carries the subtle patina of yesterday's spills. Sunglasses propped up on top of my head, I gently chew a frayed wooden stirrer (Eureka! I think this is my qualifying tic!). C'mon, Muse, c'mon; everyone round me is tapping away like monkeys on crack. Let's go.

It all makes me want to read Hemingway's A Moveable Feast one more time.

The question is, are there any more CanAlCanal Tales in the larder? Let's see, shan't we?

During the row I kept an abbreviated Journal – just a 3x6 spiral notebook, the same one I carried on the '06 Big Row – and at the end of each day I would jot down highlights, hoping that my memory would fill in the blanks later. Hah. That it took me 30 minutes to find the notebook this morning does not inspire confidence on the "fill in the blanks later" assumption…but let's see what's here.

Day One: On 6/22 I made a note about the aerodynamic incompatibility of a 15' Adirondack Guideboat and the Volvo station wagon. My magnificent mom offered to let me drive her (in said Volvo) to Buffalo so I could launch from there, and it soon became clear that no combination of line tension or boat placement would yield a stable combination. We'd be trundling west on the NYS Thruway, chatting about my brother or sister, when suddenly the boat would be riding sidesaddle along mom's side of the car like a bad imitation of a rodeo cowboy. I'd pull over to center the boat and tighten the lines, and the process would repeat fifteen minutes later. To paraphrase Frost, "Something there is that doesn't like a Volvo…" My boat sure didn't…and it made for a tender trip.

Mom, as is her indefatigable style, watched me push away in Buffalo at about 5:00 PM…and then drove herself all the way back to Lake George….by my count, about a 720 mile day for her. (Hey, kids, Note to File: When I'm into my 80's, don't compare me to your grandmother, 'K?)

I put in 19 miles to Lockport that evening, arriving after dark. The Lockport locks were closed, so I tied up to a low dock as it started to drizzle, set up a tarp on the dock next to the boat, and hunkered down for the best night I could make of it.

Which leads me to Harold...and a brief tale of unconditional kindness.

At about 10PM I spotted a fellow walking his dog on the opposite bank. He saw me huddled under my tarp and greeted me cheerfully, introduced himself as Harold, his pup as Ripa, and asked me what was up. I explained my journey, we exchanged pleasantries, and bid each other goodnight across the canal. I soon tried to sleep, acutely aware of what sounded like a hard-drinking crowd gathered on my side of the canal just above the lock. Gentle Reader, believe me when I tell you that sleeping with one ear on a wet dock and another tuned to the pending antics of a well-lubricated crowd is not a recipe for good night's sleep.

Around midnight I became aware of footsteps on the boards. I peered out of my tarp to the beginning of the dock and saw Harold, sans Ripa, carrying two enormous bags. I climbed out of my hut, greeted him again, and he explained that he'd been rummaging around his apartment to see what a rower might be able to use on an extended trip. He handed me the bags, I thanked him, and he headed off into the drizzle.

Gentle Reader, I'd taken great pains to pack lightly for this trip, knowing that each pound would have to make it to Troy under my own untested power. I know I sound ungrateful, but these bags were heavy, and I waited until morning to sort through them: canned goods, envelopes, stamps, paper, a map, a compass, candles, a lighter, a frying pan, batteries, candy, baggies, soap, gloves…

I ask you, what kind of fellow crosses a canal at midnight in the rain to deliver items that might be of use to a total stranger? Harold, thank you. In the coming weeks I would see extraordinary wildlife and scenic vistas, but nothing can match a kind heart. The added weight meant little whenever I thought of the care he took to make my trip a little more comfortable.

Peg will join me here for lunch any moment. It's time to ditch the stirrer and the pretension, order up that Whipped Vanilla Bean Frappuccino, and grab a menu.

More tomorrow?

Hugs,

Mr. Frei

Home at Last.

Greetings, Gentle Reader, July 9, 2008

Well, it's over.

At least the rowing is over. But this novice adventurer's appetite for the tedious chronicling of his experience is, I'd say, about half finished. I have some thank-yous to administer, some stories to get down, and, as Rickie Ricardo might say, "some 'splainin' to do."

On Sunday at noon I rowed out of Lock 2 in Waterford into the stream of the mighty Hudson. While I'd like to tell you that my first plucky impulse was to wave to the assembled crowd and turn downstream towards Baltimore, my posterior had another more strident idea: get out of the boat…now. So, I did.

The crowd, as it turns out, was largely oblivious to my journey's end, having assembled for the celebration of Waterford's Canal Day: reggae music, a farmer's market, crafts and wares, and a dozen steam-powered craft which were giving rides- a particularly poignant activity given the $5 diesel I'd been hearing about from fellow boaters for the past two weeks, While there were some TV and news crews milling about, I don't think I made the press; I was out for the count by 9 PM and if there was coverage, I missed it. But Matt, Kate, the Doc and Jan, Mark, and Jack were there to greet me with oatmeal cookies, egg salad sandwiches, and a quart of chocolate milk. I ask you, what more could anyone want? At least Fox wasn't there, as they were in Baltimore in '06, asking me to reenact my arrival. When it's over, it's over. And it was over. Kate's thoughtful and timely gift said it best: a pound of Epsom Salts.

So…the stats? Fourteen days to the day, including three full days cavorting about the Finger Lakes and making friends by shore and vine. 367 miles, including said detour to Cayuga Lake. Two nights in hotels, eleven in my tent or under a tarp. Longest day, 50 miles…shortest day, 15. Two days of rain, primarily a blessed tailwind most of the way, one thrilling 22 mile "open water" crossing (Oneida Lake), 36 locks (32 down, four up, for a net fall of 572 feet), and lots and lots of fluids. The scales this morning told me that eight pounds had melted away or have been converted to matter more dense…but sadly, the mirror suggests that this "melting" was but a veritable trickle down the glacier. I should have kept rowing. I count eleven gnarly calluses which will fade quickly, a nasty friction chafe on the top of my left hand where the oars overlapped, and layers of sunburned skin that will soon join their callused brethren. Oh…and some money raised for the fine families and boys at Boys' Latin, but I'll have an update on that stat tomorrow.

As I anticipated, in its physical demands, this row was not the relative epic of the '06 Troy-Baltimore sojourn. Except for Cayuga and Oneida lakes, I was within easy hailing distance of shore the entire time. There were no tides, no appreciable currents, no denizens of the deep. While there were some straight stretches of five miles and more than a few panoramic views, this was a row affording an intimate connection with beautiful country.

What truly distinguished this row from '06 was, for want of a better word, its "sociability." A lot of people live and work along the canal, and more than a few wanted to talk, tell stories, or ask me about my trip. I often relied on the kindness of strangers and more than descriptions of my toil at the oars, these folks will be the topics of the next few blogs.

It's nice to be home. Thanks, Kathy and Peg, for sustaining the blog - and me - for so many days. I should perhaps let Kathy's pictures replace the thousands of words I may be tempted to write in the coming days, but how can I coach my students to keep their writing sharp if I myself rely on Kathy's fab pix to give 2 U on the DL?

See what I'm up against?

More tomorrow?

Hugs,

Al

Row to finish at Waterford Visitors' Center

Al is spending the night at the Schenectady Yacht Club tonight, and is being treated royally!

His friends Peter and Karen met up with him this morning at Lock 11, and watched Al take Peg through the lock.

We last saw Al at Riverlink Park in Amsterdam, as we headed south today. Peter and Karen spent the day trailing him down to the Yacht Club.

If you are in the area tomorrow, he will land at the Waterford Visitors' Center at noon. The map can be enlarged by double-clicking on it.

A few new photos added to the set at

http://www.flickr.com/photos/ktylerconk/sets/72157605887017822/

If any of you are there when he finishes, please email me photos, so that I can add them to the blog.

Hope you all had a great 4th!

Kathy

Amsterdam on the 4th of July

Mr. Frei made it to Amsterdam, New York by 4:30 this afternoon. It sounded like a smooth row today.

We had dinner and listened to fireworks being launched in the surrounding towns until the mosquitos drove us to take cover.

Mr. frei estimates that he will finish the row on Sunday around noon.

A few new photos and 1 video of Mr. Frei playing the harmonica at

http://www.flickr.com/photos/ktylerconk/sets/72157605887017822/

Happy 4th of July from St. Johnsville, New York

Mr. Frei is happily ensconced at a marina in St. Johnsville, New York after a large plate of spaghetti at a local Italian restaurant. It was a rainy day, but he said that he was a nice change from the hot sun.

There were 2 Boys' Latin connections out of the 3 other boats staying at the marina for the night. One couple were parents of a graduate, and one lady had dated a graduate back in the 80's.

Lock 17 was amazing, and one of the tallest in the world at 40 feet. Will add a few photos taken there to the flickr set at

http://www.flickr.com/photos/ktylerconk/sets/72157605887017822/

Mr. Frei had an interesting night last night sleeping in his tent by lock 19. In the middle of the night a strong wind came up suddenly, causing him to worry that the boat might get blown into the canal. He chose to go to the boat rather than stay in the tent, even though he was the only thing weighing it down, since he would rather lose the tent than the boat.

After lashing down the boat, he discovered that his tent had blown across the field like a tumbleweed, and the contents resembled a tossed salad, which included the water from the cooler than had broken open with the force. Mr. Frei is a tough guy!

Today was a light day for Mr. Frei, as he "only" did 24 miles.

More tomorrow!

Mr. Frei in the FINGER LAKE TIMES on July 2

Hello, We had no computer access yesterday, and it is quite late tonight, but we thought you'd enjoy seeing this article that just came out in the FINGER LAKE TIMES.

Also, I continue to add photos to the photoset on flickr.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/ktylerconk/sets/72157605887017822/

Mr. Frei is at Lock 19 tonight, sleeping in his little pup tent. He did about 34 miles today.

More tomorrow!

Kathy


WEDNESDAY JULY 2, 2008 Last modified: Tuesday, July 1, 2008 6:08 PM CDT

‘All about the journey’

By MIKE MASLANIK/Finger Lakes Times

He doesn’t have a mule named Sal, but Al Freihofer is seeing the Erie Canal the old-fashioned way, by row-boat.

“I’ve always wanted to see the Erie Canal, and what better way to do it than from a boat,” Freihofer, 56, of Baltimore, Md., said, speaking on a cell phone from near Cross Lake, west of Syracuse.

On June 22, Freihofer set out from Buffalo in his 15-foot Adirondack Guide Boat, determined to paddle roughly 360 miles to the Hudson River, near Whitehall in Washington County.

Along the way, he has enjoyed the sights and sounds of the Finger Lakes region from a unique perspective.

“This whole canal system is such a special resource,” he said. “It’s great to be able to see it in slow motion.”

Freihofer’s boat never leaves the water. He spends his nights sleeping in a tent under the stars.

He is especially struck by the friendliness of the lock operators, who happily operate the mechanisms for his small boat and send workers at the next one word of his approach, he said.

This past weekend, Freihofer’s cruise took him to Cayuga Lake State Park in Seneca Falls, where he spent some time at the Morehouse Boat Reunion, a gathering of folks who own vessels built by the now-defunct company.

The trip is mostly for pleasure, he said, a way to clear his mind after another year of teaching eighth-grade English at the Boys’ Latin School of Maryland, a private school in Baltimore. But he’s also raising money to bolster the school’s scholarship fund. Before he left, Freihofer took pledges for the miles that he travels.

This is Freihofer’s second major canoe trip.

Two years ago, he paddled down the Hudson River from his native Troy, Rensselaer County, to Baltimore — about 460 miles — raising about $18,000 for the Boys’ Latin School.

By Freihofer’s estimates, he should make it to his destination by early next week, but he’s in no hurry.

“This is definitely one of those trips that’s all about the journey,” he said.





http://fltimes.com/articles/2008/07/02/news/doc486aade6529bf976758535.txt

Bonus Blogette

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

It's now July and I'm back on the canal, streaking east. Yesterday was a 36 miler, much of it through rain, and my arrival at Lock 24 coincided with a downpour followed by a delightful interview - and subsequent dinner - with Richard Palmer, editor of The Canal Times. His beat is literally the full breadth of the Canal, making my episodic row look like a lark. He joined Peg, Kathy, and me for dinner...and no doubt learned a lot more than will be - or should be - printed.
I also interviewed with The Finger Lakes Times yesterday via phone. If it's a slow news day, I'll be something of a celebrity in these here parts. Uh oh.

This morning it's off to one more lock and then Oneida Lake, 19 miles away and itself 22 miles across. I have been warned of this lake since Tonawanda a week ago; apparently its shallow depth and lack of protection can make it the Kiddie Pool from Hell in any kind of breeze, so I'll sniff my way out and see what the conditions are like this afternoon.

I'm sore all over today; yesterday I sustained a 4.8 mph avg for 36 miles...really booking with the load I'm carrying (and am), and the legs and shoulders feel every stroke of it this morning. But I'm psyched make it on to the lake, and the 'lil Shackelton in my aspires to get across the thing today, weather permitting. When your Inner Voice is Evil Twin Skippy Shackelton, only trouble can ensue.

It's nice to still enjoy the companionship of Peg & Kathy on this leg; I think they'll be with me for another day or so, and then the blog entries and pictures will take a breather until I get home. I'll still be calling in and Kathy will post, of course, but I'll miss the electronic communion with you, my Gentle Readers.

That's it for now. Some new pix are up. I don't know how Kathy does it, and probably never will.

Hugs,

Al